


This Road Leads Where Your Heart Is

by LittleLostPieces



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, M/M, Model Harry, Oblivious Louis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-27
Updated: 2014-08-27
Packaged: 2018-02-14 23:39:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2207376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleLostPieces/pseuds/LittleLostPieces
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alright, so Louis has a bit of a type is the thing.  And as fit as his supermodel flatmate (Harry) may be, he isn't what Louis is looking for in a potential partner.  That’s all.  He’s not Louis’ type, with his miles of lanky limbs and his bright, boyish eyes.  His impossibly tight, little body and infectious laughter are not what Louis wants.  They're not.  Really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Road Leads Where Your Heart Is

**Author's Note:**

> Many millions of thanks go to Leah supernope for helping me figure out where this was going and offering a suggestion that made it so much better. I <3 your face, lady.
> 
> Title from Tiesto's _Red Lights_.

Although he has a great many wonderful qualities – there’s a list in his drawer at home in case he forgets a few of them – thinking before he speaks is not one of Louis’ strongest suits. He’s certain that’s never been more evident than now, sitting in the passenger’s seat of a very posh sports car, on his way to a very posh restaurant with a very posh investment banker called Robert. They’ve been stuck in traffic since Robert picked him up an hour ago, but conversation has been lovely, so Louis considers it a perfectly reasonable first date. 

Admittedly, pointing at the male model on the billboard just beyond his side of the car and declaring, “That’s my flatmate,” could be considered a bit of a tactical error at this point.

Sometimes he forgets that a man of a certain age, regardless of how fit Louis may find him, can be a bit intimidated by the knowledge that his date lives with a twenty-year-old professional model, especially when that model is currently splashed fifteen feet tall against the side of a building, wearing nothing but tiny, white boxer briefs and practically fellating a banana.

To his credit, Robert only nods in response to Louis’ outburst and they manage to get through a nice dinner together, decadent food and lively banter shared fairly easily between them. He’s maybe a bit boring, this investment banker at his side, doesn’t really make Louis laugh much, but their tastes in music and television are similar. The way Robert has kept his hand on Louis’ thigh throughout their meal is a traditionally good sign that things are headed in the right direction anyway.

He’s nearly forgotten the declaration in the car earlier by the time dessert arrives, so it catches him a bit off guard when Robert asks, “So you live with Harry Styles then?”

It shouldn’t be a surprise – everyone in the country seems to know the new face of Burberry, the face of every bloody other thing, these days – yet it still is. 

“Um, yes,” Louis nods, his breath catching as he waits to see what Robert will do with this information. “For about a year now. He’s a good mate,” he adds, just to assure Robert that he has nothing to worry about here, that he hasn’t even _noticed_ how incredibly fit his flatmate is, how it’s slightly hard to breathe when Harry smiles.

“Hm,” Robert responds, dipping his spoon into his berry sorbet before he asks, “Isn’t that a bit, I don’t know, distracting?”

Louis blinks. “How do you mean?” he asks, genuinely confused. Sure, Harry is charming, but he’s just Harry. What about him would be distracting? Certainly nothing Louis has noticed, nothing at all.

“He’s Harry bleeding Styles, mate!” Robert exclaims, a bit too loud for their surroundings, if the look the nan at the next table shoots them is any indication. He clears his throat and leans closer to Louis, his hand still squeezing Louis’ thigh. “He’s got the face of an angel and the body of a god, know what I mean? And he’s out, to boot? It’s impossible to look at him and not want him, yeah?”

“Obviously,” Louis mutters, barely fighting the urge to roll his eyes.

Misinterpreting Louis’ reaction, Robert slides his hand further up Louis’ thigh, his breath hot against Louis’ ear. “Don’t be jealous, love. I prefer my men with a few curves.”

That’s probably supposed to be some kind of compliment, Louis thinks with an internal sigh. This night is not going to end as Louis had hoped it would.

The thing is, he’s not jealous of Harry’s face or even his meticulously sculpted body. He’s not even jealous that people find his friend attractive. Harry is a professional beautiful person, for goodness sake. He actually, literally gets paid to be attractive to people, so they should, indeed, think he’s good-looking. Yes, Louis – who surrounds himself with stupidly good-looking men on a regular basis, _including_ Harry – knows that his flatmate is fucking attractive.

It’s just. 

Alright, so Louis has a bit of a type is the thing. And as fit as his supermodel friend may be, he isn't what Louis is looking for in a potential partner. That’s all. He’s not Louis’ type, with his miles of lanky limbs and his bright, boyish eyes. His impossibly tight, little body and infectious laughter are not what Louis wants.

While Harry is stereotypically attractive, Louis prefers his men a bit stockier and maybe older. He likes an air of mystery. He goes for a man who’s established, has a good job and his own home and possibly a bit of grey at his temples. Louis is not looking to start a relationship with someone like Harry Styles, no matter how many people around London lust after his naked body on a billboard or in a magazine advert. 

He just wishes that everyone, from his own mother to now Robert, would realize it’s possible to acknowledge that a man is aesthetically pleasing without wanting to shag him breathless. Louis, for one, has managed to resist just fine. Really, he has.

*

“You're absolutely right, Lou,” Zayn assures him when Louis says as much over drinks the following evening. 

He's spent the last hour bemoaning his lack of luck in the love department as of late, detailing Robert’s reaction to Harry and the way he seemed far less attractive to Louis after said reaction. It's nice to have some back up.

“Thank you, Zayn,” Louis says, reaching out to ruffle Zayn's hair, or rather to pretend to ruffle it. He'd never actually touch Zayn's sacred mane, but watching him freak out at the possibility is entertaining in itself. 

But then Zayn goes on to say, “I mean not in relation to you and Harry, obviously you want to shag him breathless, but in general, yes. You are right.”

Dryly, Louis asks, “Et tu, Brute?”

Zayn raises one hand in defense. “I'm not saying you will,” he clarifies. “I'm just saying it's obvious you want to.”

Honestly, his own best mates should at least see exactly how wrong for each other he and Harry are, shouldn't they? “He is _not_ my type.”

“Thank fuck for that,” he hears mumbled at the end of the table.

Eyes now narrowed on Niall, who seems enthralled with the foam on the rim of his glass, Louis asks, “And what is that supposed to mean, hm?”

“You're type isn't exactly working out for you, is it?” Niall asks, bolstered by some sudden sense of confidence.

“That's because his so-called type is a dick,” Zayn explains evenly, as though they're discussing the weather or the latest football scores. Off of Louis' haughty look, Zayn shakes his head. “Not dick like big, gay cocks, idiot. Dicks like assholes,” he stops, exasperated, when the others laugh. “You know what I mean.”

“I do,” Louis assures him, though it would be hilarious watching Zayn fumble for words if he were talking about anyone else. “But I will remind you that I have dated some very distinguished gentlemen in my time.”

“But none of them exactly worked out, did they?” Liam finally chimes in, as kindly as he can.

Louis' not in the kindest mood at the moment, though. “Well sometimes you have to kiss a few frogs, Liam.”

“Read an article online once that said Harry looks like a frog,” is Niall's helpful input.

“Oh for fuck's sake, I do not want to shag Harry Styles!” Louis shouts just as the music overhead dies out between songs.

And now the entire pub is staring at him, a few looking downright horrified and the others chuckling or outright laughing. Brilliant.

“You never had trouble getting past the first date before Harry moved in,” Zayn finally says, when the other patrons have resumed their own conversations once more. 

And, okay, maybe that's true. Louis was great at getting second dates before, or at least getting laid after the first one, but that doesn't have anything to do with Harry. It can’t.

“Coincidence,” he insists, waving a hand as he takes a long drink from his own beer. “I mean, it's only been a year. My record before was spotless, so this could easily be some higher power making sure I don't get too arrogant about my ability to pull. Has nothing to do with the sexy, little idiot that lives down the hall.”

When he finally turns his attention back to the others, Niall is staring at him blankly, shaking his head. “I honestly don't know if you're trying to convince us or yourself anymore, mate.”

Louis pushes his fringe from his eyes and mutters a half-hearted, “Fuck you,” because he has a pretty good idea of which it is and there’s no way he’s adding that fuel to the fire.

*

If he’s completely honest, in the deepest, darkest, most often ignored parts of Louis' brain, he can admit that the lads might be a tiny bit right. Maybe he does want to shag Harry a bit. Maybe. Possibly.

It's perfectly logical, he figures, because he saw Harry as the rest of the world sees him before he answered Louis' advert for a flatmate. He saw him dressed up in the finest the fashion world had to offer and dressed down to nearly nothing while selling hair cream or something equally unrelated to his naked chest. He saw Harry's face in airbrushed close-ups, his eyes staring innocently at nothing while Louis thought horrible, deviant thoughts about the lip Harry was holding between two incredibly long fingers. And, alright, he thought some pretty filthy things about the fingers, too.

It's not like he is the only person on the planet who saw Harry Styles and wanted to fuck him until his brain turned to mush and slid out his ear. He knows he isn't. At least half the sodding country wants to shag Harry Styles, for fuck's sake.

It's the way his mates, his family even, say _shag_ that throws him off because it sounds like they very much do not mean roll around in the sheets with him until they're both down for the proverbial count. No, they say the word like they mean Louis wants to marry him, like he's mentally shopping for country homes where they can raise babies and grow old together. 

Which is nonsense because Harry is absolutely not Louis' type. 

It's proven when Louis lets himself into the flat at two in the morning, still buzzing off the pints Niall kept buying him and feeling a bit worse for wear. Louis' type of man would be in bed already because he has a sensible job that starts in just a few hours, wouldn't even notice that Louis’ stumbled in so late in the first place. He absolutely would not be doing yoga in front of the telly wearing nothing but a sinfully tight pair of pants and a fucking head scarf.

“Oh, hiya,” Harry greets with a distracted smile, balancing himself on one arm and possibly the side of his foot while waving at Louis with the hand stretched over his head in a classic side plank. 

It's only because of Harry and his stupidly, stupidly toned biceps that Louis even knows what a side plank is, really. It's only because Harry does this kind of thing constantly, stretching and flexing himself into a myriad of muscle-straining positions while dressed only in the barest minimum clothing allowed to still be considered mildly decent, usually while Louis is trying to watch some mindless telly. It's rude is what is, really.

“Hey,” Louis says, priding himself on sounding unaffected and reasonably nonchalant.

He forces himself to ignore the rivulets of sweat rolling down Harry's neck and pooling in the hollow of his throat as he gracefully drops to his stomach and then raises himself up on only his hands, knees drawn up to rest on his bent elbows, the haphazard tattoos on his arms glistening in the thin sheen covering his entire body. The curve of his bum from this angle is, well.

Right. Now Louis needs a drink. Never mind that he's already had too many of them tonight.

He settles for a bag of crisps, ripping them open far too violently and shoveling as many as he can into his mouth at one time. 

He doesn't even like tattoos. They're not his _thing_. Muscles and tattoos and nudity, who needs them? Not Louis, that's who. 

It seems like only seconds before Harry is letting himself into the kitchen, stalking toward the refrigerator and withdrawing a tub of yogurt, what looks like a load of weeds, and a small container of raspberries. After grabbing a few other supplies, he moves to the blender and begins preparing a smoothie, because that's what normal people do at two in the morning, Louis thinks sarcastically.

He munches on another crisp, feet rooted to the floor, eyes focused on the tiles so he doesn't have to see the wayward curls that always frizz around Harry's face after he's been working out. It shouldn't be appealing, frizz, but a deeply buried part of Louis takes a sick sort of pleasure in knowing he sees a part of Harry, infamous supermodel, that the world will never be privy to. He likes knowing that he’s the only one allowed this infinitely more appealing - and so much more troubling - side of Harry.

“Crisp?” he offers, blinking innocent eyes in Harry's direction once the stench of Harry's post-work out body odor has tampered the simmering arousal in Louis' gut. 

Though he smiles, Harry shakes his head and punches a few buttons on the blender, barely looking to see the contents whirring into whatever concoction he's created this evening. “Thanks, but I better not,” he says, smiling all the way to his eyes. “Swimwear shoot tomorrow.”

With a wink, like he fucking _knows_ what images he's just placed in Louis' head, Harry pours his smoothie into a glass and raises it in a silent 'cheers.' Louis, somewhat miserably, lifts his bag of crisps in response.

“Mmm, fruity,” Harry declares after swallowing loudly. “Also kind of gross, but sacrifices must be made, I suppose. Speedo pays well.” He grins again, as though he's completely unaware that this is not a conversation that adult people have in the middle of the night. And then he takes another drink and pats his stomach like a four-year-old.

It can barely be considered a stomach, Louis thinks. It's nothing but lines and abs and flatness. That's not a stomach. Louis' type of man has a stomach, he thinks suddenly. It didn't matter until now - body type has never been a determining factor for Louis - but his type definitely has a stomach. A tummy. A belly, even. Whatever, his type isn't this statue-carved-in-marble man standing before him now, that's for sure.

“ _You're_ gross,” he spits as a brilliant and witty comeback, his nose scrunching as he bites into another crisp.

But Harry just barks an obnoxious laugh and presses a cold, fruity kiss to Louis' cheek. “You love me,” he insists, stepping back to rest his hip against the counter. “So how was the date?” he asks.

“The what?”

“Date?” Harry clarifies, blinking in confusion at Louis' response. “I haven't gotten a chance to ask since you went out last night.”

Oh, right. Robert. Harry had been out with his industry mates when Louis came home last night and he was still asleep when Louis left for work this morning. He was out when Louis got home, as well, and hadn't returned in time for Louis to invite him out with the lads. 

Their schedules rarely mesh before midnight which, Louis ticks another mental box, means they're absolutely not right for each other.

He shrugs. “He was alright, yeah,” he answers vaguely. “Big fan of yours.”

Regardless of how not meant to be they are, Louis remembers that Harry is still a great friend to have when he pouts his lip at Louis' statement. “I'm sorry, mate,” he says, as though it's somehow his fault that yet another in a sea of millions loves his ridiculous face. 

“You're not to blame, Haz,” Louis assures him, reaching out to touch his arm gently. “If I refused to date anyone who fancied you, I'd have to pop over to some island a million miles from civilization to find a partner, wouldn't I?”

It's meant to be a compliment, really it is. Harry's frown only deepens, though. “It's just a face,” he mutters, kicking his foot back and forth and taking a final drink of his smoothie. “Even that's an illusion most of the time. What kind of idiot has never heard of Photoshop?” he continues, dumping his glass into the sink before dismantling the blender and filling it with water. “I mean, you deserve better than someone who's fooled by a bit of makeup and some lighting tricks, don't you? He doesn't know, Lou, and you deserve better than that kind of idiot.”

He's scrubbing furiously now, shaking his head and muttering angrily. Something in Louis breaks, this hardened shell that's been so intent on keeping the very same illusion of Harry Styles out finally cracks as Louis watches the big-hearted, overly-emotional boy he lives with spilling out all over their kitchen.

“Hey,” he whispers, reaching into the faucet stream to cover Harry's hand with his own. The glassy look in Harry's eyes twinges something deep in Louis' stomach, but he ignores it in favor of offering his friend a soft smile. “It's fine, love,” he promises. “You're quite the charmer, you know? That smile's not always fake, is it? People can't help falling for it, I don't think.”

Harry opens his mouth, as though he has something else to say, but snaps it shut again when Louis brushes his finger over Harry's jaw. He draws a stuttering breath and then tears his eyes from Louis, turning the faucet off and stepping back. “I should shower before I sleep,” he says, chuckling nervously. “Should be well-rested for the shoot.”

He's gone before Louis even realizes that his heart is still hammering against his ribs, before it occurs to him that he absolutely would have let Harry, his flatmate Harry who is not at all his type, kiss him just then. 

Fuck.

*

Back in university, Saturday mornings were for staring at the television and trying not to throw up while he waited for Friday’s hangover to dissipate. They were for building up his strength until he was ready to give it another go in the evening. They were for doing absolutely nothing and loving it.

Apparently, the rules have changed now that he’s graduated and joined the grown up work force. As he understands it, Saturdays are now for doing the things he doesn’t have the time or the energy to do around the house during the week. Laundry, small repairs, errands and the like, that’s what his mum told him when he left for London anyway.

He’s still sitting on the sofa while cartoons play mindlessly in the background, less hungover than he used to get but no more interested in washing his own pants. Harry usually does the laundry before Louis can get around to it these days.

As if summoned by Louis’ thoughts, Harry comes ambling out of his room dressed in a pair of shorts and a jumper that might actually be Louis’, or it became Louis’ after he stole it from Liam a few months back. There is a soft, green beanie pulled low over his curls and neon yellow trainers on his oversized feet. He still looks lovely, maybe moreso because he’s not all put together and shiny perfect.

“You’re awake,” Harry says, surprised to see Louis out of his room before noon.

It _is_ a bit of an anomaly, Louis supposes. He shrugs and sips from his tea as though it’s nothing. “I’m growing as a person.”

Harry laughs, easy and sweet and wide awake, so annoyingly awake. “Well I’m heading out to the shops for a bit. Do you need anything, besides more cereal?”

Does Louis need more cereal? He hadn’t even noticed, but of course Harry has. He always does.

“You know I don’t have any idea what we need, Harold.”

Harry’s shoulders rise, his face flushed. “You could come with me,” he offers, like he does every time he pops down to the shops when Louis is around, but he doesn’t bother waiting for the inevitable rejection. 

It’s not that Louis doesn’t like shopping with Harry, but he’s so bloody particular about everything. He actually knows what he’s there for, what he needs and wants to buy, while Louis just chucks things into the trolley if they look good for the moment. Harry puts them all back again, like his mum used to do, and Louis didn’t move to London to live with his mum again.

“Alright, fine,” he says anyway because it’s not as though he’s doing anything else at the moment. 

“Really?” Harry asks, looking not unlike a small child being told they’re going to Disneyland. When Louis doesn’t move, he crosses his arms and huffs a bit. “Today, Lou. I was planning on going today.”

While he doesn’t exactly jump up and run, Louis does begrudgingly stand from his spot at the end of the couch and move slowly toward the hall. “Give me ten minutes.”

“For what? You’re already dressed.” 

“Nearly every time we go out, someone recognizes your stupid face and I’d like to at least brush my hair, if that’s alright with you.” Honestly, Louis knows he’s devastatingly handsome, but he doesn’t just wake up like that. Most people don’t. “Don’t want to end up in the Daily Mail with my fringe sticking up and my shirt inside out, do I?” Nevermind that most of the papers cut any of Harry’s not-famous friends out of shots when the paps accidentally capture them, Louis doesn’t want to take a chance.

Like the sensitive knobhead he is, Harry laughs from the time Louis disappears into his room until the time he reappears with a beanie shoved low over his head. And then he just laughs harder.

“Couldn’t find a brush?” he asks, wincing when Louis pushes him into the wall but following nonetheless.

They’re only pointed at and whispered about a few times on the walk from their flat to the shops. Louis barely notices as he tries to keep up with Harry’s rambling story about some dream he had last night. Louis is fairly certain it was about a train, but Harry talks so bleeding slow sometimes that Louis thinks maybe _he’s_ the one that started dreaming about trains in the middle of this conversation.

They’re already in the produce section by the time Louis clues back in to what Harry is actually saying and, if he’s honest, he doesn’t much care for it.

“It’s always better at the Farmer’s Market, but I don’t have the time to head down there today, so this’ll have to do.” He plops far too much leafy greenery into the trolley and then moves on to the fruits before Louis can protest. 

Of course, Louis can always find time to protest. “Are you going to fill the entire thing with boring fruits and veg, Harold? Or can we save a bit of room for something fun?”

“Fruit _is_ fun, Lewis,” Harry fires back, tossing strawberries, blueberries, and a mango over his shoulder and into the basket like a pro before turning to face Louis with a bunch of bananas in his hand. “What’s not fun about bananas?”

Growling under his breath, Louis grabs a grape from a nearby display and tosses it at Harry’s face, cackling only a bit when Harry gapes at him like he’s taken a piss on the gates of Buckingham Palace or something.

“Fine,” Harry concedes, tossing the bananas in the trolley anyway. He sniffs primly and steps around Louis. “There’s a sale on carrots. I’ll just load the rest of space up with those, shall I?”

“I hate you,” Louis mutters, but it’s hard to remember why when Harry smiles so hard that he dimples at the response.

They make it out of produce without any damn carrots in the cart - Louis likes to think it’s because Harry knows that Louis will shave his head in his sleep if he buys them - but they are getting a sickening amount of healthy things still.

Louis tosses biscuits and sweets into the cart because he can, not because any of them look particularly good, and he has to take a minute to repeat his mantra to himself - _not my type, not my type, not my type_ \- when Harry only puts back the ones he knows Louis will ever eat. 

How is he like this? Why is Harry the way that he is? Louis thinks it’s one of the mysteries of the world, really.

It’s easier to convince himself that they’re only mates when Harry is dancing like a disjointed giraffe to the overhead music, harder when he stops in front of the cereal and takes the box Louis is reading out of his hands.

“I was reading that.”

“You don’t like that one,” Harry insists, setting the box back on the shelf.

Louis honestly doesn’t care if he likes it. There are footballers on it, endorsing some sort of charity contest in a little bubble on the lower corner of the box. 

“You’ve put it on the list four times because there are football players on it. I’ve bought it four times because you swear you’re going to eat it this time. It has gone bad in the cupboard _four_ times. We’re not buying it.” He stuffs another box into Louis’ hands and shakes his head like an exasperated mother with small children in tow. “Here, that’s your favorite.”

“You don’t know my favorite better than I do,” Louis says, but he puts the box into the trolley anyway because, in a stroke of luck this one time, Harry is right. That one _is_ his favorite.

It’s the way he smirks when he looks at Louis over his shoulder before he says, “Trust me, Lou, I know what you like way better than you do,” not to mention the way he winks after, that worries Louis.

*

When Zayn lets himself into the flat later in the evening, he charges toward the hallway and then stops, turning slowly to consider Louis with a tilt of his head. “What are you doing?” he asks curiously.

Louis thinks it should be rather obvious, what with the way there is a bowl on his chest and a spoon in his mouth, but he wipes milk from his lips with the back of his hand and says, “Eating cereal,” with his mouth still full.

“Yes, I see that,” Zayn says, voice slow and measured like he thinks Louis is the thick one here. “But we are supposed to be meeting Liam and Niall at the club in,” he checks his watch, “fifteen minutes ago.”

With a shrug, Louis slurps another obnoxious bit of cereal and returns his attention to the telly. “Not goin',” he says simply.

“The fuck you're not. Mate, I got out of bed and I put on a shirt because you called and said you needed to pull.” He grabs the bowl from Louis' hand and the spoon from his mouth before he points toward the hallway. “Like fuck did I do all of this shit for nothing.”

“Sorry. Just not in the mood anymore,” is Louis' only explanation. 

Earlier, after they’d returned home from the shops, Harry had gone into his room and emerged in the tightest of skinny jeans and a loudly-printed floral top. He was headed to an interview lunch with some men's magazine and he looked stupidly perfect. After he'd left, there was nothing Louis wanted more than to find a nice man – one who was more suited to his own tastes, one who didn’t know him better than he knew himself, thanks – and spend an evening decidedly not thinking about Harry. 

That was hours ago, though, and his trackies are really, very comfortable.

Zayn sees through the ruse, though, because apparently Zayn sees everything. He looks at the paper spread open on the coffee table, still on the page where Louis had stopped reading it an hour ago, and then he shakes his head. “No,” he declares. “We are not doing this tonight. Get up and get dressed. Now.”

“Not doing what?” Louis asks instead of following the instructions. 

“This thing we do, where I tell you that it's obvious you're in love with Harry and you insist he is not your sodding type, even though everyone including your mother knows he is, then I pretend to agree with you but you know that I don't actually so you whinge on about it for another hour and a fucking half. Get up, Louis, or I'm dragging to you the club like that,” he says, motioning toward Louis' disheveled appearance.

Briefly, Louis thinks that he has two choices. He can either get up and do as Zayn says, or he can honestly open his heart to his best friend about how he's been sitting here, staring at that monochromatic photo of Harry in the paper, for the last two hours. 

He can actually admit that he's noticed how they've airbrushed out two of Harry's four nipples and the large butterfly tattooed on his stomach, along with the spots Louis noticed on his chin when he was having his tea this morning, standing by the kettle and scrubbing gunk out of the corners of his puffy eyes, all pigeon-toed and endearing and beautiful.

“Right,” he says, heaving a sigh and hefting himself out of his chair. “Gimme half a mo and we'll be on our way then.”

He sure as fuck not ready to talk about these mushy, gushy feelings he's been having for the better part of the last few months. Louis has never gone in for twenty-year-old, shaggy-haired models who are shined up with baby oil before being photographed shirtless with puppies and he's not about to start now. 

Guys like Harry have never been Louis’ type, and he doesn't have the patience for the existential crisis that comes with suddenly fancying someone so unlike anyone he’s fancied before, so he'll just shove it down for a bit longer and enjoy a night out with his mates.

If he gets laid by someone who actually is his type, that'll be a welcomed bonus.

*

For a popular, in demand supermodel, Harry is at home more than is logical in Louis' humble opinion. 

“Shouldn't you be at a party or something? Drinking neon cocktails and chatting about films no one has ever heard of or cares about? Isn't that what you pretentious, beautiful people do?” he asks on a random Thursday afternoon while Harry is dusting the furniture in the lounge. 

He's dressed only in a pair of loose-fitting gray joggers, slung so low on his hips that his carefully trimmed pubic hair is peeking obscenely over the waistband. Louis is trying very, very hard not to notice that, though.

Harry stops, dust rag hovering over the end table as he considers Louis. 

“What?” Louis asks over the top of his tea cup.

But Harry just shakes his head and returns his attention to his housework. “You should come with me tomorrow night,” he suggests.

“Where?”

“I'm doing a film premier with a few mates. You should come with me, see what my life is actually like.”

Rolling his eyes, Louis takes a drink and then swallows before he says, "You're inviting me to work with you? Who does that? Occasionally people with small children drag them along to their jobs, I suppose, but otherwise nobody does that, Harry.”

“Well, of course _you_ don't,” Harry retorts. “You sit at a desk, processing paperwork all day long. Who'd want to see that?” 

It's clear he's teasing by the brilliant smile on his full lips, but Louis glowers anyway. Sure, his work is less than glamorous, but he loves it and Harry knows that. He glares until his smile fights through his control. “And all you do is stand around with your hands on your hips, pouting at a camera. Who says I want to see that?”

Harry shrugs easily, only says, “Sometimes I put my hands behind my back,” and carries on with his dusting.

When he moves on to vacuuming, when he's dancing to some unheard song in his head with one arm flailing clumsily above him until he trips and nearly launches himself into a wall, Louis shakes his head and finishes his tea. 

He absolutely cannot go to work with Harry. He can't watch him posing and flirting and charming the camera – and likely everyone else in the _industry_ – for an entire evening. This has gone far enough of already.

*

For someone who generally loves being the center of attention, Louis' stomach is feeling awfully dodgy at the moment. His collar is too tight. His hair's stiffer than he normally likes it. His shoes are biting into his ankles painfully. He is, very clearly, not a film premier sort of person. That's the lesson he's taking away from this lovely evening.

It doesn't help that Harry is cool as a proverbial cucumber at his side, munching on granola from a plastic cup and nodding his head along to the music pumping through the limousine that will shortly deliver them to a glitzy circus Louis is still fairly positive he will hate. He's chatting easily with his manager in the seat opposite them, and his hairdresser has also come along for the ride. 

They've been in the car for only ten minutes and Louis would very much like to call a do-over and head back home now.

“You're such an idiot, H,” Lou, the hairdresser, says with a roll of her eyes.

“Hey,” Harry moans, kicking the slick, pointed toe of his dress shoe toward her. “I'm hilarious. Aren't I hilarious, Louis?”

Louis blinks, his attention caught suddenly on the way Harry's fancy, more-expensive-than-their-rent trousers cling to the shape of his muscular thighs, and then shakes himself of thoughts that will be not at all beneficial. “No,” he answers without thought, cringing and licking his lips before offering Harry an unapologetic shrug. “You do try, though?”

Lou snorts and Harry glares at her for a moment before smiling, so brightly and genuinely, and tossing another handful of granola into his gob. It's nice to see him happy and comfortable, but Louis would be lying if he said he wasn't a tiny bit jealous of the bond these two have quite obviously shared for much longer than Louis has known Harry. He won't admit it, but he doesn't like it.

The car stops in the queue outside the venue, idling in the caravan of other celebrities and hangers on, all waiting their turn to show off for the cameras and the mass of fans screaming just beyond the car. Harry's manager is issuing his instructions for how the processional will go, but Louis can barely pay attention. He supposes it doesn't much matter to him; he'll go where he's told and keep his mouth shut. He's not the one who belongs here, after all.

“How do I look?” Harry asks when theirs is the next car up.

Louis considers him honestly, taking in the suit Harry has chosen for this evening. It is immaculately fitted to every plane and contour of his lean body, the shoulders strong and square, the trousers meticulously molded to his hips and thighs. He looks, well, he looks like a bloody supermodel. 

It's a far cry from the gym shorts he was wearing while doing stomach crunches in the lounge this afternoon, shorts that Louis is fairly certain were actually made for women. 

Louis shrugs. “Meh,” he teases, trying like hell to keep his tongue from hanging out.

Harry pouts. It's stupid because he knows how good he looks, he always _knows_. Even if he didn't, everyone has told him approximately a million times. It still looks like Louis' opinion is the only one that matters, which is fantastic for Louis' ego but distressing for the part of his brain that's having an increasingly harder time remembering that he doesn't want to be with this giant, awkward man-child.

“Fuck you,” Harry finally says when his smile fights through. “I'm a model.” He pulls an exaggerated duck face until Louis barks a laugh because this is just so silly.

All of it, the last year, is ridiculous. Louis' living with a model, this kid who the nation wants on a carnal level, who Louis has seen literally lick ice cream off his own arm and laugh until he squeals like a tiny, baby piglet. 

Louis keeps coming back to the fact that he's a model, that he's beautiful for a living, but Harry doesn't seem to mind it at all. 

Cameras whir and click from the moment the door opens, attention swarming to Harry like a colony of irritating and shouty bees. Louis feels instantly uncomfortable, wishes against everything that he were wearing jeans and an oversized jumper at the moment, that he was back on the sofa at home instead of watching Harry ease into his element.

It's obvious that Harry takes this seriously. Tucked away between the rest of Harry's entourage for the evening, out of the invasive eye of the cameras where Louis can actually _watch_ Harry doing his job, he sees Harry turn and twist to find his best side and the right angles for the screaming paps, following their directions easily and oozing the right amount of charm at the fans shouting his name from the outskirts.

It should probably be obvious – he's bloody rich and famous for this, for fuck's sake – but Harry is _good_ at what he does, like he was born for it specifically.

And yet. 

They're nearly half-way down the carpet, Harry regaling reporters with rambling stories in the most morbid tone Louis has ever heard, when Louis realizes that Harry is the only person here who knows how to separate himself from all of it. When he meets Louis' eye over the heads of a few handlers, he pulls a face that is so at-home Harry, so goofy and stupid and out of place here, and Louis sees it clearly. 

He's just Harry and this is just work. Maybe it shouldn't be a revelation, yet it is.

It also feels a bit like Louis' grip is slipping and he really needs to remember that this man, this _kid_ , is not the one for him. 

It's harder to remind himself when Harry slips a hand around his waist inside the theater, dipping his head a bit to ask, “D'you want a drink?”

He smells like heaven, but Louis tells himself that he's the same Harry who leans over his cereal bowl with horrible posture in the morning, that there are knobbly knees and ankles under those designer clothes, and nods his head. It's going to take more than a drink, maybe forty of them.

Champagne flute in hand, Louis follows Harry into the theater and takes the seat he's shown by Harry's manager. He watches as Harry heads off to greet a few people he knows toward the front of the theater, takes in the way Harry moves and compares it to the graceless way he flops down on Louis and demands to be cuddled at home. He thinks about everything he's come to know Harry to be, about the things they've done together as friends, everything revolving around one central idea that he can't bring himself to accept just yet.

Seconds before the film actually starts, Harry slips into his seat at Louis' side and clears his throat, nervously fiddling with the hem of his jacket. “They asked me if I brought a date tonight,” he says in a low, whispered tone. “Didn't know how you felt about being splashed across the papers, so I just said no. I hope that's alright.”

It's possible that Louis freezes entirely. It certainly feels like his limbs have gone completely dead, possibly that his heart has also stopped beating all together. Is this a date? In Harry's mind, are they on a date together? This entire night was meant to be an actual date? 

_There's no such thing as 'take your flatmate to work day,' you idiot._

“Um, no. I mean, yeah. It's alright, yeah,” he finally manages to stammer when Harry tilts his head and considers Louis with concern. “Rather just be anonymous, regular ol' Louis, thanks,” he says with as much sincerity as he can muster. 

It's not untrue – he would very much like to not be Harry's flavor of the week, splashed across all the headlines for his mum and his siblings to see – but his brain is stuck on the word _date_ at the moment. He'll consider himself grateful that he dodged the infamy bullet later, when he's not wondering if Harry really thinks they're on a bloody date.

Though it never really leaves his mind, Louis does find it easier to relax as the film starts. Harry's arm is pressed warm along the length of Louis', their knees continuously bumping when one or the other of them laughs a bit too hard. It's quite a funny comedy – which is a rarity, Louis finds – and Harry chuckles a warm, low sound that floods all the way to Louis' toes, or he bellows a loud bark of the laugh that stands out above everyone else in the theater. It would be embarrassing, Louis thinks, if it were anyone but Harry.

It is, easily by miles and years, the best date Louis has ever been on and he's still not sure it really is a date. 

So when Harry leans over before the film has even finished, when his lips brush against the shell of Louis' ear and he asks, “We need to get to the first party. Are you ready to go?” Louis nods.

Yes, Louis is ready to go anywhere with this boy. Literally anywhere.

He waits until they're sitting in Harry's car, music cranked up to an eleven and Harry warbling along with the pop track, to admit it to himself. He doesn't know what it means or what to do with it, but he's absolutely, ass-over-tea-kettle in love with Harry Styles.

*

“I hate you,” Louis hisses, sick to his stomach as he watches the scene at the table beside him.

They're a week removed from the premier and Louis decidedly does not hate Harry, but he hates the way he's mauling the plate of fat in front of him anyway.

Harry just pops three more greasy, cheese-covered chips into his mouth and smiles around them, dipping sauce trickling over the corner of his lips. “I've not had anything even slightly bad in six days, Lou, not one bit of saturated fat, not a single granule of processed sugar.” He raises his pint glass and shakes his head sadly. “Not a drop of alcohol. It's no way to live,” he insists, downing half the glass in one long drink, head thrown back until the line of his throat is stretched taut and tantalizing.

Zayn snorts from his place across the table and Niall sniggers into his own drink. Liam just shakes his head and takes one of the chips himself. But Louis blinks, mouth gaping as Harry abandons the chips in favor of a nacho soaked in guacamole and sour cream. 

“Doesn't mean you have to inhale it all at once,” he says, fairly certain he's going to vomit if Harry doesn't at least breathe while eating. 

When he finally decides to take a break, Harry flops back in his chair and pats his non-existent belly. “That hit the spot,” he says, so very happy and content and lovely.

He doesn't realize that he's staring, that he hasn't contributed to or even heard the conversation around him until Zayn clears his throat and subtly nods toward the bar. “Bloke at the bar hasn't stopped starin' at you all night, Lou.” Louis hitches an eyebrow, confused as to how that's at all relevant right now. “Just your type, mate,” he adds with a very pointed, very unappreciated wink.

Curiosity gets the better of him, bloody pride that won't let him confess that he's not thinking about types and personal tradition anymore, and Louis turns.

Zayn is right. The man at the end of the bar is exactly Louis' type, well-dressed with kind eyes, salt-and-pepper hair, and just a hint of put-together arrogance. He's extremely handsome and obviously interested in anything Louis might have to offer. It's the perfect out, really.

Louis is just thinking about standing, about going over to say hello and flirt a bit, when Harry clears his throat and stands first.

“Toilet,” he explains off of Louis' questioning look. “Think I ate too much.” He gives Louis a cheeky smile and walks off, leaving Louis to completely forget the man at the end of the bar, more concerned with whether or not Harry needs someone to hold his hair back for him.

And isn't that just telling.

“Fuck,” Louis breathes, dropping his head to the table and banging it there a few times.

“Fucking finally,” Liam says, reaching over to ruffle Louis' hair and then retracting his hand immediately when Louis sits up and glares. “I'm just saying, I don't know how much longer we could wait for you to figure it out.”

“Doesn't matter,” Louis answers with a wave of his hand. “I'll get over it.”

“Jesus Christ, why?” Niall asks suddenly, as angrily as it possible for Niall to ask anything. “You've found someone who is literally the very best match for your stupid neuroses and who very obviously fancies you right back. Why the fuck would you want to get over that?”

Well, when he puts it like that.

“He's not my-,” Louis starts, voice tight but determined.

A pounding thunk against the table makes him jump, his eyes wide when he turns to Zayn, who doesn't seem to notice that he's just smacked the table hard enough to make all of their drinks shake. “You are a fucking idiot, Lou. I love you to hell and back but you're the dumbest fucking sod I have ever met in my entire life. What about Harry _isn't_ your type? Hm? Save for the fact that he's very barely younger than you, he is everything that you ever say you're looking for, successful and put together and interested in similar things. Better yet, he makes you smile like no one you've ever really dated and you actually like him as a person. He is exactly what your bleeding type should have been all along, so shut the fuck up about it, please.”

“Plus,” Liam adds, after silence has descended, as it usually does when Zayn pulls out of one of his Silent Bob soliloquies, “yoga.”

Niall is the only one who seems confused by this, brow furrowed as he asks, “What does that have to-,” he stops himself, his grin nearly splitting his face in half. “Oh. Strength and flexibility. For sex stuff. I get it.”

“Yes, welcome to the twenty-first century, Neil. Where we all think with our dicks and everything is about sex,” Louis says dryly, causing Liam to laugh until he stops abruptly.

“Talkin' about me?” Harry asks, lowering himself back to his chair, smiling as if he doesn't think there's any way they're actually talking about him. 

Oh, this sweet, wonderful boy. This boy that Louis loves and wants to be with, regardless of how fucking different and potentially wrong they might be together.

“Wait, were you actually talking about me?” 

But they're not wrong, are they? They're not wrong together at all. Louis has been stubborn and stupid and off about this whole thing. There's nothing as right about his life at the moment as Harry, nothing.

“I love you,” he blurts without thinking, causing everyone at the table to stop short, none more abruptly than Harry.

He blinks owlishly, green eyes giant and confused. “Sorry, what?”

 _Nothing. Wow, I'm very drunk._ That's the first thing on the tip of Louis' tongue – denial, denial, denial – but it's too exhausting to keep pretending, in an instant he doesn't want to.

“I said I love you. I'm in love with you. You're too young for me and you don't own your own home and you're better looking than me, so you're basically everything I have never wanted in a partner, but dammit, I am in love with you anyway.”

“Oh.”

Which is not at all okay. Louis has come this far and made an absolute ass of himself in front of the man he loves _and_ every one of his closest mates. “Oh?” he challenges, pivoting in his seat to take in the fullness of Harry's completely bewildered face. “That's all you have to say? _Oh_? What is wrong with you? Someone tells you they are genuinely, head over heels in love with your stupid face and you don’t just say ‘oh.’ Tell me to fuck off or something. Tell me-,”

He has plenty more to say, but the way Harry's tongue is licking at the inside of him mouth makes it a bit hard to actually speak. 

“Jesus,” he hears Niall mutter, but Louis literally could not care any less at the moment. 

Harry, however, pulls back and blushes, a sweet, pink tint bleeding up his neck and into his cheeks as he smiles at Louis and then turns a sly but brilliant smile to their friends. “Sorry,” he apologizes, though it sounds a bit empty, if Louis' being honest. “Just been waiting ages for that.”

It's possible that Louis preens a bit when he squeezes Harry's thigh beneath the table and asks, “Ages, huh?”

“You had to know,” Harry answers, all coy and glowing until he takes in Louis' blank expression. “You didn't know? Louis, everyone fucking knew. You were my date for that film premier last week, for fuck's sake. I was so, so obvious.”

But he wasn't, was he? He wasn't obvious about how he felt, not once, Louis thinks. “I didn’t know,” he whispers, smiling in spite of himself when Harry covers his hand and squeezes his fingers like a reassurance.

“I just figured you weren't interested,” Harry tells him, voice dropped low so that only Louis can hear it, though the others are straining forward to be a part of the conversation as well. “Thought you'd at least assume it.”

“Why on Earth would I assume something like that?” Louis asks, far too loudly.

Liam rolls his eyes and answers with, “Because you always assume everything is about you?”

“Because he hates everyone you ever date,” Niall adds, smiling cheekily when Louis flips him off for his input.

Zayn just snorts and says, “Because you have two working eyeballs and half a bloody brain.”

This is beginning to feel a bit one-sided, this conversation, so Louis angles a glare at each of them individually, and then one at the group as a whole. “None of you are invited to the wed-,” he catches himself at exactly the same time as they catch on to what he's about to say. “Um, I mean,” Louis says, clearing his throat and pushing his fringe away from his face primly. “I hate you all.” When Harry laughs, Louis squeezes his hand and says, “Especially you. You're the worst.”

“Not true,” he teases, leaning forward to press a wet kiss to Louis' cheek. “You love me.”

Never one to give in easily, Louis shakes his head. “I'm re-evaluating my life choices.”

“Don't do that, please,” Harry requests, pressing a kiss to the corner of Louis' mouth and then moving to properly press his lips, warm and full and so very lovely, square to the center of Louis'. 

It's a convincing argument, to say the least. “Take me home and maybe I won't,” he bargains.

Their friends groan and carry on about the terrible lines the pair of them are sharing, but Louis could not care any less if he tried. Harry is standing, tossing enough notes to cover everyone's drinks onto the table, and offering his hand to Louis. The rest of the sodding world can fuck off at the moment, as far as he's concerned.

*

Once, while incredibly drunk, Niall asked Louis what it is about _old dudes_ that he likes so much. Alcohol – and the immense satisfaction of watching both Niall and Liam turn a glowing shade of tomato – encouraged Louis to explain that he sometimes likes being called 'naughty' or reveling in being the one cared for instead of always looking after his own family or mates or even himself. 

It was enough to make Niall beg him to stop talking, so Louis didn't go on to explain that the very best part of sex with those partners is when the tables turn. He didn't talk about how much he loves the feeling of power that surges through him when he's gained control of the situation, knowing full well that the man he's with could overpower him or put him in his place, but that he's choosing not to. He loves knowing that his partner is consciously allowing Louis to call the shots, that the dynamic shift in roles is a concerted choice on both their parts.

Once he discovered the subtle nuances of his own desires, he became convinced that no one his own age – certainly no one younger – would ever understand them. Finding someone who exercises control in every part of his business and personal life makes that power shift in the bedroom so much more exciting, Louis thinks. So though he wants to believe that some of his previous relationships have been about more than sex, it was always leading there.

But now that he's got Harry here, spread out beneath him with his arms stretched over his head and held in place by Louis' considerably smaller hands, he sees what Zayn has always told him about Louis' own stupidity. It has nothing to do with the age or the occupation of his partner. 

Every muscle in Harry's broad chest and arms are on full display in the dim light of Louis' bedroom, his tanned skin soft against the dark sheets of his bed. He could easily, _so very easily_ , break Louis' hold and take control of this situation – Louis will let him later, to be sure – but he doesn't. His eyes shine with a mixture of defiance and surrender, like he knows what he's capable of just as well as Louis does, like he knows damn well what Louis wants and likes.

Straddling Harry's tight stomach, Louis slides his fingers down Harry's arms, scratching a bit with his nails, and marvels at the way Harry stays in position wordlessly. He watches Louis watching him, waiting to follow Louis' cue, chest rising and falling steadily as the rest of his body stays completely still. 

“You're indecent,” Louis finally concludes, once he's worked his fingers over Harry's biceps and across his collarbones. “Your entire existence is just obscene.”

For the first time in what seems like ages, Harry speaks, chuckling first and licking his lips before he does. “I'm sorry? Thank you? I don't know what I'm meant to say to that.”

But Louis only rolls his eyes, the sound of Harry's voice reminding him that this is not some random man he's pulled in a club. This is his flatmate, one of his best friends in the entire world. “Well, it's not as if you don't know, is it? You've heard it a million times.”

“It's not the same as hearing it from the person I love,” Harry responds with complete, undeniable sincerity.

And isn't that just the kicker? He could have anyone, literally point out a face in a crowd and just _have_ them, Harry could. There are thousands, if not millions, of people who would gladly follow him, do whatever weird or strange or kinky thing he asked of them, and hundreds of them would possibly, genuinely fall in love with him in the process. He's a lovable bloke, to be fair.

But he wants Louis. He loves Louis. It's mind-blowing.

“What?” Harry asks when Louis has been silent for too long, his emotions probably dancing all over his face in a way the he's usually careful to guard against.

And he could express it – he might do later, actually – but Harry's cock is hard against Louis' bum right now and it hardly seems the time for long, soppy speeches about romance. 

He just shakes his head and says, “No, it's. Nothing,” which is obviously a lie. It's not nothing, it's _everything_ , but this moment is not about everything.

“Are you going to let me fuck you then? I've had about all the foreplay I can take, you know?”

Louis tweaks Harry's nipple, cause him to bite at his lip and narrow his brow, but it also effectively shuts him up. If that gives Louis a bit too much of a thrill, he's not going to mention it at the moment.

*

Though it's raining, grey, and far too cold for Louis' liking when he wakes up alone in the morning, he can hear Harry singing loudly in the kitchen so it's probably going to be an alright day, he thinks.

Stretching until his back pops, rolling around under the duvet just to revel in the pleasant soreness of his body for a minute, Louis feels the satisfied, happy laughter that bubbles up in his throat long before he hears it filter out of his mouth. It sounds silly, but he feels light and quite possibly a bit giddy. 

Dressed only in a pair of loose sweatpants – oh, the irony – Louis rolls his neck as he steps into the hallway and follows the direction of Harry's off-key, top-volume warbling in the kitchen. If Louis was expecting some drastic shift in dynamic now that he and Harry have finally gotten their shit together, he was very wrong. 

Harry is still standing, pigeon-toed and sleepy-eyed, in front of the hob. He's still wearing the smallest pair of fire engine red pants and his hair is still flat on one side while it fights to make a frizzy escape from his head on the other. He's still stupidly fit, still smiling brightly when he realizes he's no longer alone in the kitchen, and still offering Louis his morning tea as Louis makes his way across the floor.

“Alright,” Louis teases, hoisting himself onto the counter before accepting his tea. “You can stop now,” he says, training his smile into something more long-suffering and less so-in-love-I-might-explode, or at least he hopes that's what he's conveying. Harry doesn't need any more admirers, Louis figures.

Brow knitted in confusion, Harry returns his attention to the sausages in the pan before him. “Stop what?” he asks, quickly shifting to the eggs on the other burner. Louis knew Harry was quite the cook, especially of breakfast foods, but it seems even more sexy this morning. Everything about him seems sexier this morning, to be fair.

“This whole seduction thing,” Louis answers, kicking the back of Harry's knee with the tips of his toes, chuckling into his tea cup when Harry stumbles a bit and grunts.

Shoveling the wayward side of his hair from his face with his forearm, Harry shoves Louis out of the way to grab a couple of plates. “What are you talking about?”

“The nudity and the domestic goddess thing,” Louis says, making a vague gesture with his head, nodding at Harry's entire being. It's all rather discourteous, really. “You've got me,” he promises, hiding his smile behind his cup when Harry hums happily. “Don't have to parade around naked anymore or anything.”

Though he's laughing, Harry looks a bit bewildered. “What are you on about?” he asks, dragging Louis off the counter by his knee, laughing when Louis yelps and nearly drops his tea. “I've been cooking and cleaning in my boxers since I was a kid. Ask my mum,” he says as he drops into his chair at the table. “Gemma used to shout at me about it all the time.”

Louis honestly doesn't know if that makes it better or worse, the fact that Harry is just so naturally comfortable in his own skin that he used to parade around his childhood home as naked as he does around Louis' flat. He also wonders if it makes him sound completely full of himself to think that Harry was just doing it to get Louis' attention. It doesn't bother him if it does make him sound like that, but it does give him a bit of a pause.

Before he can ponder any further, Harry points his fork and swallows before shrugging. “Now, the yoga,” is all he says, but he's smirking coyly at Louis now, openly flirting over breakfast, the little minx.

“Yoga?” Louis asks as blankly as he can, because fuck forbid he give an inch, no matter how obvious his lie may be. “I hadn't noticed.”

It would be easier to play him if Harry at least pretended to fall for it, but he doesn't. Not even a wee bit, the ass. “You are such a liar.”

The way his eyebrow arches is sexy, but the dimples that pop in his cheeks are adorable and Louis grows flustered like he never has with anyone. 

Slamming his tea a bit too hard against the table, he says, “Of course I'm lying, you knob,” he exclaims, throwing his arms out and shaking his head. “You're bloody flexible and fit as fuck. Of course you know I noticed!”

With a soft chuckle, Harry leans across the table and covers Louis' hand with his own. “I love you,” he says.

“Of course you do. Why wouldn't you?” Louis huffs, though it shoots a shiver of a thrill down his spine to hear it. 

“Can't think of a single reason, if I'm honest.”

*

If he's being completely candid, Louis might worry that dating Harry is a bit weird. 

His relationships have always been a bit obsessive and possessive, passionate and full of melodrama and fighting. There’s always been this angry, sub par makeup sex that only seemed great at the time because of the adrenaline high, and a bit of actual great sex when things were good. 

But things with Harry are _easy_ is the thing. Almost nothing has changed at all. Granted, it’s only been three days, but they’ve not sat around talking about how much they love each other or screamed at each other about how annoying they are. Harry still acts like an absolute flop, still revels in being domestic, and still unwittingly turns Louis on and then makes him laugh about it a second later. 

One thing has changed, of course. Now when Harry teases Louis, when he walks around in his little pants with his broad chest glistening in a thin layer of sweat, Louis can _do_ something about it. The sex is fantastic, but so unlike anything Louis is used to in a relationship that he’s not quite sure what to do about it, either.

Maybe it’s not that things are easy, really. It’s just that it’s so much fun being with Harry, really and truly _with_ him. Friendships are fun, as Louis has experienced them, but romantic relationships are serious business. They’re nice and sometimes they’re lovely, often times they’re fulfilling, but he doesn’t know what to do with fun.

For instance, now. He’s laughing so hard his fucking face hurts, his belly tight and his shoulders shaking while Harry does exactly the same thing at his side. They’re meant to be getting off, that’s clearly where this was headed just a moment ago, but the mood’s been ruined somewhere along the way.

_It started normally enough. Louis was watching telly when Harry came home from work. His hair was still sprayed back in a bit of a quiff, Harry’s was, and he was wearing perfectly tailored trousers with a soft, gray jumper. He disappeared into his own room, which has turned into more of a closet in the last couple days since he sleeps in Louis’ bed now, and then emerged in a pair of neon green boxer briefs, a black elastic holding the top of his hair back in a tiny wisp of a ponytail._

_He dropped a soft, hello kiss on Louis’ forehead and then plopped onto the floor and started stretching. Louis knew he had to stop it all before the yoga took place, so he carefully set his mug of tea onto the side table and rugby tackled Harry to the floor._

_Harry screamed, his limbs seemingly all over the place while he rolled around with Louis and fought for some kind of dominance, which is hilarious now that Louis thinks about it because Harry is one of the least dominant human beings he’s ever met._

_“Stop!” Harry shouted, laughing against Louis’ neck as Louis dug his fingers into Harry’s bare sides with a maniacal cackle. “I’m trying to work out, Louis, you menace!”_

_When Harry got the upper hand, pinned Louis to the floor and wedged a thigh high between his legs, rocking a bit, Louis stilled. The air shifted and things got very much more interesting very quickly._

_“Fuck,” Louis whispered, his cock filling instantly as he hooked one leg behind Harry’s thigh to give Harry more room to move._

_“Yeah?” Harry asked, low and hot against Louis’ ear._

_Yeah. _Fucking yeah._ Louis moved with him, grabbing at the back of Harry’s hair to pull him into a wet, desperate kiss. This is what he wants. This is what he always want with Harry. _

_But then Harry leaned forward and his little top knot ponytail flipped straight up in the air. Louis doesn’t even know why, but it was somehow the funniest thing he’d ever seen. When he jolted with laughter, he accidentally dug his heel into the back of Harry’s hamstring._

_“Fuckin’ hell, Lou,” Harry howled, dropping onto his back at Louis’ side, holding onto his thigh as his face scrunched in a mixture of laughter and pain._

_“Sorry,” Louis apologized through his own giggles, rolling to bury his face in the side of Harry’s neck, where he got a mouthful of product-riddled curls that tasted absolutely horrendous. “Oh, Jesus, Harry. Fuck,” he growled, spitting as he rolled away and struggled to sit, crawling toward the table to gulp at his tea, which had gone cold and completely gross._

_When Louis spat his tea out, immediately scrubbing the back of his hand over the dribbles on his chin, Harry barked an inhuman laugh, hands resting on his stomach even as his face turned red._

It’s so fucking ridiculous. The entire thing is so dumb and Louis’ entire body aches with the laughter that they’re both virtually choking through as they gulp for air. 

“You are so smooth,” he finally says on a sigh, once he’s caught his breath and wiped a few tears from the corners of his eyes. “If only your fans knew what a fucking clod you are in the bedroom.”

He nudges Harry with his toe, gasping when Harry shows surprising reflexes in grabbing his foot and squeezing until Louis kicks him in response. 

Louis is fairly certain no one has ever, _ever_ , looked at him with such love and genuine affection. Harry is radiating it so clearly that it’s literally undeniable. 

“We’re not in the bedroom,” he points out, rolling onto his stomach and rising onto his hands and knees, proving just how gracefully he can actually be when he crawls like a cat toward Louis’ place on the floor.

Legs falling open, Louis hums his agreement and carefully watches Harry’s forward movement. He drapes his arms around Harry’s neck when he finally stops, when they’re pressed chest to chest. “That is a fair point, mate,” he acknowledges, skin tingling immediately when Harry drops his gaze to the hollow of Louis’ throat.

Nuzzling his nose along the line of Louis’ jaw, Harry nips his teeth along the sensitive skin there, humming when Louis starts to play with the back of his hair. “Could change that, though.”

“Hm,” Louis hums, momentarily losing the plot a bit. “Could do. Afraid we might trip into a wall, though,” he teases, raking his nails along Harry’s neck and shoulders. 

Harry’s head nod is barely perceptible. “Fair enough,” he agrees, capturing Louis’ mouth with his own.

As if he’s trying to get Louis off before they can manage to have another mishap, Harry’s hand slips immediately down the line of Louis’ sternum, tickling the soft hairs on his belly before plunging easily into the waistband of Louis’ sweatpants.

It’s quick and it’s messy, Louis tugging at Harry’s hair and gripping tight to his shoulder while Harry vigorously jerks his cock a little too dry and a little too rough, but still perfect. 

There are small beads of sweat forming above Harry’s upper lip, the lower one caught between his teeth and his brow furrowed in concentration, while he grinds his own cock against Louis’ thigh. It’s the cutest thing Louis has ever seen, so he’s already smiling around the moan working its way out of his throat. So when Harry grunts, Louis laughs in spite of himself.

“Hey,” Harry whines, twisting his wrist but pulling back far enough to aim a mock-hurt look at Louis.

“Sorry,” Louis apologizes immediately, pushing forward to kiss Harry quickly before he sinks back against the chair once again. “I’m not takin’ the piss, I promise. You’re just so,” he stops and shakes his head, pulling Harry closer to kiss him again. “You’re perfect.”

If it’s possible to preen while stroking a cock and attempting to pull his own out of his pants, Harry absolutely does it.

Rolling his hips a bit, Louis smacks the hand away from Harry’s dick and takes over himself. There’s no real rhythm between them, just a lot of desperate movement, nonsense words, and smiles shared.

Harry finally falls forward, a soft _hmph_ whispered against Louis’ neck.

Maybe Louis would find it sweet, if he hadn’t just shot his brain out through his dick, if he could breathe properly. “Get off,” he mutters, haphazardly pushing at Harry until they can both flop over onto the floor. “So fucking heavy,” he whines.

Laughing again, softer this time, Harry lets one arm fall, lazily bouncing against Louis’ thigh before he raises it to rest against Louis’ side. He brushes his knuckles over Louis’ ribs. “I’m really glad I moved in here,” he says.

“Yeah?” Louis asks, rolling his head until it rests comfortably on Harry’s shoulder. “Why _did_ you move in here?” It seems like maybe he should have asked before now, but Louis has never allowed himself to worry about why Harry - who could probably afford more than one home of his own, really - chose to answer Louis’ ad for a flatmate in the first place.

“Never been very good at living alone,” he admits, tangling his fingers with Louis’ and raising their hands to his mouth, running the back of Louis’ over his lip. “Didn’t hurt that you’re fit as fuck.” Off of Louis’ snort, Harry rubs his cheek against the top of Louis’ head. “That’s not why I stayed for a year, though.”

“No?”

Harry hums, pauses to gather his thoughts, and then shakes his head a bit. His hair tickles the side of Louis’ face. “I lived with other fit people, but I didn’t _like_ them.”

Confidence bolstered, Louis puffs his chest out a bit and squeezes Harry’s fingers. “Well, I’m easy to love, obviously.”

It’s a joke, but Harry doesn’t really laugh. “It’s more than that, you know. I mean, I don’t know that I’ve ever been in love before you, but I know I’ve never liked being around anyone as much as I do you.”

“You like everyone,” Louis argues, because he’s never actually heard Harry say a mean thing about anyone, not that he can recall at the moment anyway. “You’re the nicest person I’ve ever met. It’s annoying really.”

Harry nudges Louis with his toe. “Being nice to people and actually liking being around them are two different things.”

Maybe Louis isn’t thinking as clearly as usual - post-coital haze being what it is and all - but he thinks that makes sense. With a bit more of a struggle than can be considered graceful, he wiggles around until he can sit at Harry’s side, running his fingers through the hair that’s curling around Harry’s cheekbone at the moment. 

“I like being around you, too.”

It’s true, he does. In fact, Louis is quite certain there’s no one he likes being around more. He just wishes that didn’t scare him so much.

*

He may possibly call Zayn in a bit of a panic over it a couple of weeks into the relationship. He maybe freaks out a bit over how easy it's been, how little has changed, how Harry still acts like Louis' best friend and they still carry on living together as they always have. 

“So what's the problem exactly?” Zayn asks after Louis has ranted for a solid twenty about how perfect Harry is and how much Louis loves him, as though it is the worst thing in the world.

He tells him about the breakfasts Harry makes and the trips to the shops, the errands they’ve taken to running together. He tells Zayn all about the way they still watch shit telly together and the way Harry still whines when Louis makes him watch an episode of _Breaking Bad_ that he has zero interest in whatsoever. He tells him about how Harry still comes home from work looking like a million pounds, still sheds it all at the door and asks about Louis’ day, as though it could somehow compare in excitement to Harry’s own.

And he tells him about the sex, despite Zayn’s repeated attempts to shut him up. 

“I mentioned that I like watching guys take big cocks in porn, that I think it’s hot, so he just came home from work with one, this giant dildo. He wasn’t even offended, didn’t assume that I was unhappy with the size of his like a normal person would be. He just said he was open to whatever makes me happy!” It’s so foreign to Louis, even now. “So I returned the favor and went along with the stupid pirate role play he was dying to try. Turns out that is far more hilarious than sexy and we just laughed about his clip-on earring for forty-five minutes before he blew me and then said ‘argh’ with come dribbling all over his chin. Then he stripped the bed and put all the sheets in the washer so they wouldn’t stain!”

“Lou, I really don’t fucking need to know this.” 

But Louis is on a roll now. If he can’t tell his best friend about the ridiculous amounts of stupid mishaps he’s had in the bedroom, who can he tell really? Harry? He already knows about them. He’s been there.

“There’s one thing that’s been a bit disappointing, though.” He waits and then says, “This is where a decent mate would ask me what that one thing is, Zayn.”

“I don’t actually care,” is all Zayn says, grumbles actually, but he doesn’t hang up.

Louis takes that as an encouragement to keep going. He was going to anyway. “For a guy who does so much fucking yoga, he’s not nearly as flexible as I thought he’d be. Know what I mean? He can balance himself on his own elbows but he can’t fucking get his knees up to his ears, no matter how hard I push. Says he has short hamstrings or some shit. And he fucking dropped me on my ass while he was trying to fuck me against a wall two days ago. Months of fantasies right down the drain, I’ll tell you.”

“Lou, I am begging you to stop. Begging.”

Finally, Louis sighs. It’s easy to talk about this stuff, because this stuff doesn’t matter. He talks about sex with his mates all the time.

“Why can’t he just be awful?” he finally asks, exasperated.

Zayn, as he's always been prone to do, just laughs. “So you're pissed off that your best mate is still acting like your best mate? That you still don't have to clean your flat or cook for yourself? And that you're getting, your quote, the best sex of your life? Am I hearing you right? You're worried because you're happier than you've ever been?”

Why is that so hard to understand? Yes, it’s great that Harry is acting like more of Louis’ best mate than some possessive boyfriend who won’t let him out of his sight without calling to check in on him eighty times. Yes, it’s great that Harry actually _wants_ to take care of the house and the meals, that he won’t even let Louis help because Louis is absolute rubbish at anything domestic. 

And yes, it’s great that sex with Harry is more phenomenal than anything Louis has ever experienced.  
They’re connected in a way Louis didn’t know it was possible to sync up with another person. They change positions wordlessly, fumbling around and kicking or smacking each other in the least sexy and most awkward ways, but it somehow ends up getting Louis even hotter than he knew he could get. It’s all weird and nonsensical, but absolutely perfect when Harry is staring at him, sweat pouring down his face and neck, whispering about how much he loves Louis until Louis feels like his face will break from all the smiling.

It’s intimacy like he’s never experienced and it’s bloody fantastic, this thing with Harry.

“I just don't,” Louis starts, and he already knows Zayn is going to take the piss, but he can't stop it from tumbling out anyway, “I'm not used to this. I don't know what to do with it.”

“Enjoy it?” It sounds so simple when Zayn says it, like it's the only obviously right answer, but Louis still isn't sure. “I mean, yes, it's different than what you're used to, of course it is. Because it's _right_ , you fucking idiot.”

And then he hangs up, no _good-bye_ or _fuck off_ or anything. Bastard.

*

It's been another week of domestic love and bliss and world-shattering sex - sometimes also dish-shattering, though Louis maintains that it was a freak accident and fucking on the dining room table should not be banned forever - and Louis is _trying_ to enjoy it. He really is trying not to let it bother him, how basically perfect Harry is but it's still nagging the corners of his mind. He's poised and ready for the other shoe to drop, if he's completely honest, for Harry to realize this isn't what he wants at all or something. 

“What's wrong with you?” Harry asks.

His head is resting on Louis' thigh, _Game of Thrones_ playing in the background, providing the only light in the darkened lounge. They've spent the entire day here, just lying about on the couch, cuddling and snogging and binge-watching a box set like a completely normal, and very real, couple.  
Harry was supposed to meet his manager and a couple of other industry contacts for drinks but he canceled hours ago, telling whomever he rang that he was too comfortable to move. 

“Hm?” Louis asks, distractedly watching the way Harry's hair falls between Louis' fingers.

But Harry pulls away and grunts as he sits, as graceless as any human being has ever been, flailing and shouting when he nearly knocks himself off the couch. When he's finally righted himself, glared at Louis for laughing at him, and moved to straddle Louis' hips, he rests his arms on either side of Louis' head and stares into his eyes like he's searching for something.

“You're acting weird,” he finally says.

Louis pinches Harry's bare waist. “Says the weirdest person I've ever met,” he teases, swallowing when Harry doesn't budge or crack even a hint of a smile. “Are you happy?” he asks suddenly.

Harry blinks, drawing back just far enough to study Louis' entire face instead of just his eyeballs. “How do you mean?” he asks, tilting his head as he wraps one massive hand around Louis' neck and tickles the hair that curls out there. “Like professionally? Existentially? Sexually?”

“What, are you a thesaurus now?” Louis asks playfully and then smiling when Harry catches his bottom lip between his teeth. 

“You know none of those words means the same thing, right? I mean, a thesaurus, like, tells you words that mean the same thing, and none of those do.”

Though he chuckles, Louis can’t bring himself to tease Harry this time. “With me,” he admits, almost too quietly to even hear himself. “Are you happy with me?”

“What?” Harry asks, brow furrowing in confusion. “Of course I'm happy with you,” he adds quickly. “Why, are you not-,”

“No, love,” Louis interrupts, because no matter how conflicted he's been, he can't bear the hurt expression on Harry's face. “I'm happier than I have ever been,” he admits. “Unbelievably happy, really.”

“You're kind of starting to worry me a bit, Lou,” Harry says, scratching the scruff of Louis' neck gently. “What's going on?”

It hits him all at once just how incredibly stupid he's been. This boy, this beautiful, bright-eyed boy, this man who has proven himself to be absolutely perfect for Louis in the last month, in the last year actually, loves him. It's written all over his face right now just how much he cares for Louis and Louis has been so caught up in his own head to even appreciated everything that Harry has been all along.

“You're not exactly my type either, you know,” Harry says before Louis can spill his own guts.

“What?”

Quirking an eyebrow, Harry licks his lips and then laughs. “What d'you mean, what? You've known me for a year, Lou. Surely you've noticed I have a type.”

If he's completely honest, Louis has tried his hardest to pretend Harry doesn't actually date. He has a couple of mates that he goes for drinks with or friends that he takes to red carpet events, but Louis has very conveniently chosen to buy the line Harry always feeds to the media. _We just get on really well._

“Idiot,” Harry mutters under his breath as he moves one hand to run it through his own hair. “You know I was only sixteen when I started modeling, yeah?” Off of Louis' nod, Harry takes a deep breath before he says, “So when someone told me that it was best to only date people inside the industry, that they were basically the only people who would be able to put up with my new lifestyle and with all of the attention I was going to be getting, it made sense, didn't it?”

Louis supposes it does make a bit of sense, if the person who told Harry such a thing was incredibly jaded and narrow-minded. He shrugs rather than verbally interrupting, but the way Harry pushes his arm says that he knows what Louis is thinking.

“I was a kid!” he insists, laughing when Louis smiles. It's hard not to when he's so open and just so, so lovely. “Anyway, what I found out is that models are just as neurotic and insecure as anyone else can be. Actors get just as jealous and possessive and weird as any _normal_ person would, whatever normal is. And musicians,” he stops and pulls a hilarious, scrunched face. “Musicians are the worst.”

“But they're prettier,” Louis points out, sticking his tongue out to show that he's teasing.

Harry doesn't bite, though. He just shakes his head while he runs the backs of his knuckles over Louis' cheekbone. “They're really not,” he says, voice floating far away, like it's completely disconnected from the rest of him at the moment.

“Aw,” Louis teases, his own fingers mimicking Harry's gentle touch along the small of Harry's back. “You think I'm pretty.”

“Shut up,” Harry shoots back, flicking the corner of Louis' jaw with a finger and then gripping him firmly by the shoulders. “The point is that I was so stuck in this idea that nobody outside the industry would ever understand me, even though I knew they didn't get me any better than anyone else ever had, that I couldn't see that the one person who actually _does_ fit with me was sleeping right across the hall from me.”

Louis doesn't know where the question comes from, but he needs to know. “What changed your mind?”

“Niall,” Harry answers without hesitation. “I told him about the advice I'd been living by. He smacked the back of my head and told me I wasn't fucking sixteen anymore so I should stop acting like a little kid. Also, he reckons the person who told me that just wanted me for himself, which actually made sense when I thought about it, so I suppose I _was_ quite stupid about it all.”

“Not so stupid,” Louis assures him when he considers his own thought process over the last year. “I think it's quite scary, stepping out of your comfort zone, especially when it's so much better than everything I thought it would be.”

Harry's eyes actually, literally sparkle. “Yeah?”

“Absolutely,” Louis answers with complete certainty. “I'm quite smitten with you, did you know?”

Straightening his shoulders, Harry assumes his best model face, the one that drives everyone – Louis included – completely mad with want. “Most people are,” he says, but the way he collapses into giggles ruins the effect.

Louis digs his fingers into Harry's sides, causing him to jerk and shout a delirious sort of laugh that sends them both to the floor, tangled and laughing until they can barely breathe. When he's finally gathered the upper hand, pinned Harry to the carpet with a triumphant grunt, when Harry is flushed from his chest to his cheeks and _still_ giggling a bit, Louis thinks the effect hasn't actually been ruined at all. 

He doesn't know if he'll handle some aspects of Harry's job any better than the industry people he's dated have – the idea of a naked, oily Harry pressed up against some other beautiful, equally naked person doesn't exactly make him jump for joy – and he doesn't know how Harry will handle some of Louis' more _eccentric_ relationship habits, the ones he's kept carefully in check until now. 

But Harry has rolled them over and he's positively beaming at Louis like nothing else in the world matters as much right now. As much as he'd hate to admit it with anyone else, he knows he's giving the same look in return, like nothing else even exists for the time being. 

Louis figures the rest will work itself out in the end.

**Author's Note:**

> As usual, you can find me at [tumblr](http://littlelostpieces.tumblr.com/) if you'd like.


End file.
